Parallax
by antepathy
Summary: Drift/Perceptor/Wing, slash, sticky. Wing ends up as a ghost, inhabiting Drift's Great Sword.
1. Chapter 1

Another kink meme request: Wing, after his death, ends up inhabiting the Great Sword. Eventual sticky.

Prologue

"Good job out there." Springer looked…vaguely disturbed by the words coming out of his own vocalizer. But he wouldn't deny it: Drift had been good out there, every bit as good as Kup had talked him up to be. Nothing against Kup but he had been known—occasionally—to embellish from time to time.

"Thanks," Drift said, his optics meeting Springer's only briefly, before dropping down, almost shyly, to his hands.

"Did real damn good," Topspin chimed in. "Didn't think you'd stand a chance, you know, swords and stuff."

Drift gave a shrug. He didn't really deal with praise. "Did all right."

"All right?" Twin Twist leaned around Topspin's bulk. "Didn't think some of that stuff was physically possible. Like, how'd you do that thing…?" He made some flailing gesture with his hands. "You know, when they had you all cornered and stuff and you were like shoop shoop, slice!" He shook his head. "Thought you were down for sure."

Drift blinked. "Don't know." He didn't know. He had no memory of what Twin Twist was even talking about. The whole battle only came to him in fits and starts—lulls, pauses, bits of slow motion. Nothing big, nothing dangerous, nothing important.

A long, odd moment, before Kup cut in. "Just keep it up, kid. Told you you'll fit right in." He gave Springer a measuring glance.

"I'll try." He would; he had no other options. He needed to help win the war, make things right.

[***]

Sometimes, he wept, or tried to, his insubstantial nonbody aching with the memory of tears. Drift was safe, Drift was alive and he was here to see it, share in it.

…only not really. He could only watch, silent, unseen, unheard, unnoticed, the Great Sword's gem a blue chrysalis protecting him, holding him. Through the decacycles after his death, he had watched Drift, as he left the planet, as his path crossed with the Autobots. Through the decacycles he had done his best to counsel, comfort, sustain Drift, through the long, agonizing nights, the fugues of doubt, the storms of worry that his everything would still never be enough to atone for his wrong. And through the decacycles he had seen Drift make a new home, new friends and…a new lover.

It hurt, though he knew he had no right to be hurt. And Drift was happy with his new lover—a way he had never been happy with Wing. Which also hurt, driving Wing to a sort of mindless distraction. He wanted to hate Drift's other one, but he couldn't, because he could read loss and tragedy in this one, too, and any comfort the living might give to each other was more important than a shattered soul, bound to an ancient crystal.

He was there, feeling like an interloper, a spy, as they shyly circled one another with words, as they dared a first, shy kiss, as they learned each other's bodies. He had been there, in an agonized joy, wanting, and aching with loss. Not for him. No more, no longer. Not for him.

It felt like a curse, or divine punishment, to be condemned to this, to see one's beloved happy without one. He felt selfish, abandoned, left behind.

And most of all…lonely.

Wing had never been lonely, not for aeons ; Crystal City was bustling with life and friends at all hours. He'd always had someone he could talk to, something to do.

This was…torture, undeserved, and he wracked his cortex for a logic why he should be condemned to this. There was no logic other than a fluke—Drift touching the sword moments after Wing had, the energy of his exploding spark still crackling down the blade. It had bonded him, bonded them and he would do anything to keep that bond. But this…he feared he could not endure.

And he tried to mitigate it, feeling his sanity begin to unknit itself, by leaving the stone. He couldn't go far, or for long, but he could do it. So he explored the _Axion_, got to know its inhabitants, their patterns, their personalities, their secrets: Kup's nightmares, Springer's unspoken worries logged, every night, in a private file. He watched holovids from a corner of the rec room, fascinated by the world they showed—something long gone to him. He wondered what their fuel tasted like, ran ghostly fingers over the weapons in their armory, talked…to himself.

And then there was Drift's one. Perceptor. The one he wanted to hate.

Wing glided into the lab, its night darkness cut by one single lamp crooked over a workbench, while the red mech's broad shoulders bent over, hands, face, intent on some small mechanism. Who was he? What did he know?

Wing slipped closer, studying the bench—a datapad held some bright schematics, that matched the capacitor and actuators connected on the table. As he watched, Perceptor tugged a line from his wrist, to feed live current to the device. It snapped, almost as fast as Wing's gaze could follow. Wing jumped back, startled, an 'oh' of surprise jarring from him.

And then he was fixed by a blue optic, large, reticled, pinning him to the wall like a lance. "Who-?" Perceptor didn't bother to finish the question, one hand flashing to draw a gun, its black eye somehow less intimidating than that cold blue stare.

Wing found motion, running—or as a ghost runs, drifting fast, with the memory of legs, the memory of pistons driving—from the lab. He could hear the hard thuds of Perceptor in pursuit. The red mech was not particularly fast, but fast enough, and he knew the ship better than Wing did. Wing barely managed to make the door to Drift's quarters before him, in his haste pushing through the cold metal, feeling the prickling of the circuitry through him as he passed, diving toward the jewel and its safety. He couldn't process what had just happened. Not yet, not now. All he could do was pull himself into the blue stone, curling around himself, dulled and prickling with fear.

[***]

A flash of white. At first Perceptor had thought it was Drift, come to chide him to get some rest, but the face was unfamiliar, the optics gold instead of Drift's quiet blue, and the armor wasn't…armor at all. Not hard and sleek with straight lines, but fuzzy, insubstantial, like a mist, almost. Some cloaking device, Perceptor thought, as he swore he could see wall straight through the intruder.

And no one was on the Axion for any good purpose. His pistol found his hand, like an instinct, as he charged after the shape which seemed to dart ahead of him, sharp, uneven movements, like some wild animal fleeing from a predator.

Drift's door. Perceptor felt his spark chamber give a cold throb. Another agent of Turmoil's, or worse, Megatron's, come to dispatch Drift. Infiltrated, compromised. And yet security hadn't even bleeped. This was something beyond Perceptor's worst nightmares—if he allowed that he had any dreams at all.

He blurted the unlock codes and authorization overrides as he charged the door. Somehow the intruder had gotten into the room. He couldn't have passed through the door itself—no technology could do that.

…Could it? He was long gone from Kimia: perhaps such things were possible now.

The door seemed to take ages to open, before he could stumble through the opening, gun whipping around, seeking the target.

Drift jolted at the sound, drawing one of his blades, sitting up on the berth, optics bleary but ready. "What?"

Perceptor looked around. Nothing out of place: his spare pistols charging on the wall, below where Drift's Great Sword hung, the blue gem seeming to glitter in the darkness. Nothing out of place, nothing unusual. But then…what had he seen? What had he chased in here?

"You're alone."

Drift cocked his head. "Of course I'm alone, Perceptor." He gestured around the room. "Was recharging. He let his gaze drop to the gun, pointedly.

Perceptor dropped the gun's barrel, clicking it against his hip until the magnets engaged. He kept circling the room with his optics, trying to sense the intruder. Nothing. His lips thinned, frustrated.

Drift's face broke into a gentle grin. "Told you you've been working too hard."

"No. It's not that. I just…saw something."

"Saw something." Drift waited.

"Something white. It led here." He frowned. "I know I saw it." Hadn't he?

Drift pushed to his feet, letting his hand close over Perceptor's wrist. "It's a sign you need more rest. There's nothing here." He pulled Perceptor closer, tipping his head up to cover the frown with a gentle kiss. "Come rest." He took a step back, drawing Perceptor toward the berth.

Perceptor muttered a protest, but let himself be led to the berth, let himself be drawn down into the circle of Drift's arms, rejoining the kiss. "I just-," he murmured, feeling Drift purr against him.

"Everything's fine," Drift returned. And Perceptor had no reason not to believe him, no reason to doubt, as he lifted his head, letting Drift's mouth move to his throat. He sighed against Drift, letting his own arms wrap around the white shoulders.

And in the darkness, a blue gem glittered.


	2. Chapter 2

Drift dreamed, and he knew it was a dream, because Wing was with him. He lived for these dreams. Every night he hoped for one, and each night felt blessed when one came, like a gift, a glimpse of the life he could have had.

He and Wing sparred seemingly endlessly, the gold optics lighting on him, warm, adoring, delighting in teaching him, training him. He woke up from these dreams feeling stronger, better, purer in his resolve. And after the sparring...quiet, tender moments between them. Like this one: Drift watching the simulated sunset cast red gold lights over the glittering spires of the underground city, elbows resting on the silver railing of Wing's balcony. And Wing's arms wrapped around him, from behind, pressing his chassis against the weight of the Great Sword he wore. It was a dream, after all, and he could have his sword between them.

Wing's audial flares sleeked over his cheek armor. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Drift nodded. It wasn't real, and it wasn't his, but he allowed himself to enjoy it in his dreams. These dreams stayed with him, during his waking hours, warm glow in the darkness, hope in what seemed sometime to be an endless uphill journey. It was the life he had thrown away, and it fed his resolve to have these glimpses, to wake up, hands and spark empty.

Wing sighed against him, a sound of more pure contentment than any words could express. Drift lifted one hand, letting his fingers brush over Wing's around his chassis. Wing craned his neck, placing a light kiss, like a sacrament, on Drift's helm. "I love you," Wing breathed, the vibrations of his voice tickling against Drift's armor, dancing over his sensornet like some wild current. Words no mech had ever said to Drift, words that Wing had never said while alive. It was just a dream, something his cortex cooked up to comfort him.

And Drift knew that. And because he knew that, he let himself lean back into the embrace, turning into the warm kiss, his optics dimming, hazing the moment. "Love you," he answered, as his mouth met Wing's, feeling the truth like a rippling echo through him. He could hear Wing's surprised whimper, feel the hands clutch around him, clinging to him, Wing's glossa finding his, the kiss deepening, before Wing drew away.

His optics were lidded, mouth still parted from the kiss, nearly trembling with emotion. "No, Drift," he whispered. "You should love the living."

And the illusion tore itself like fabric, with a wrenching scream, before him, a reminder of the truth he tried so hard to forget in these rare, bright moments. "Wing!" he cried out, desperately, but Wing was gone, fading, the whole bright, gold-red sunset darkening like a stormcloud's face.

And he jerked awake, on his berth, surrounded by darkness.

"Drift?" Perceptor's voice, Perceptor's arm, a comforting weight over his chassis, where he'd fancied Wing's had been. Blue optics split the darkness. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he murmured, reaching desperately after the shredded dream, his spark burning hollow. "I'm fine." He managed a smile, somehow, turning into Perceptor's gentle embrace. Unlike Wing, Perceptor's arms never clutched at him, but invited, shyly, afraid of rebuff.

"Yes," Perceptor said, absently, his gaze shifting, distant, resting, Drift noticed, on his Great Sword, hung on the wall, the blue gem swirling, an echoed trouble of his own spark.

[***]

It ate at Perceptor. He knew he had seen something. If it were some…phantasm, he wouldn't have seen a face, optics, a tentative, almost worried smile. If it had been overwork, a hallucination, he would have hallucinated, surely, something he'd seen before?

He'd never seen that mech before. Never seen armor like that, armor almost like…Drift's.

Worse…he'd seen it since. Never clearly, never as cleanly as that time. Just flashes of white and red from his periphery, quick motions. As though it were hiding from him. A few times he'd seen it in his lab, and called out, "Who are you?" No response.

One time, he'd sworn he'd seen it in Drift's quarters, the white figure seeming to vanish behind the sword.

He wasn't working too hard. No matter what they said. He'd pushed himself harder at Kimia. His own up-modifications had been more stressful. He was not that weak.

But…what?

There was only one way to find an answer.

He lay the heavy mass of the Great Sword down across his workbench, carefully, as if even from here, any noise or jar of the blade would wake Drift, alert him to its absence. He stood back, for a long moment, staring at it, shaking his head. If Drift caught him at this, he'd have no excuse, no answer.

No. He had to know. He had to prove to himself that he wasn't crazy. Or he was—the image of Kup and his cy-gars floated to his cortex. No.

He steeled himself, sitting down before the Great Sword. "Show yourself," he said, feeling foolish, pitching his voice low. He cast a quick glance behind him, making sure the door was closed. He tapped on the gem. "I know you're there." I hope you're there, because if not…. "Show yourself."

Nothing. The gem was flat and quiet under the high-key light of his workbench. Perceptor deflated.

Nothing. He was wrong. It was some glitch, must be something wrong. He felt his mouth pinch, tight and hard, biting on bitterness and failure.

No. Try harder. You have to know. You have to settle this. He activated one of the microtools in his hand, a laser cutter, holding it over the swell of the gem. "I will destroy this if you don't show yourself," he said, the threat coming awkwardly from his vocalizer. He hated to destroy things, and he knew that it would be…a wedge between he and Drift. He hoped it was merely an empty threat, a gambit. The white light of the laser flared from his finger, a fine scalpel edge.

"Please, no." A voice so soft, like an echo, that at first Perceptor thought he was imagining it. He looked up, to see a white shape, blurry, indistinct, before him, one pale hand reaching desperately for the gem.

"Please," the voice pleaded, optics glowing gold, "it's all I have."

Perceptor released a hard chuff, warm air gusting over the table. He turned his head and the image disappeared. Turned again, and there it was—a white armored mech, red flashes, face intense, earnest. He could, he realized, only see it through his reticle optic. Odd . It was real, though. He hadn't been imagining things. "Who are you?" he asked, trying to make it a demand. "What do you want?"

"I-I," the translucent form seemed to quail back, optics flicking warily to the laser cutter, still hovering over the gem. "I mean you no harm."

Perceptor frowned. "You've run from me."

"I didn't know you could see me. And then…," a nervous shrug. "I was afraid," the voice whispered.

"How can I see you? What technology do you have?"

The hands came up, defensive. "No technology. I'm…I'm dead."

"Dead." Perceptor sat up, studying the mech. He cut off the laser. It was impossible. Unbelievable. He reached one hand for the translucent limb in front of him. It felt like a fuzzy prickle against him, the armor insubstantial.

"Dead," the figure confirmed. "I am Wing. Perhaps Drift has spoken of me?" A hopeful tremor in the voice that told Perceptor more than he wanted to know.

"No," Perceptor said, immediately regretting the blunt answer when he saw the face…collapse. He had, he realized, heard the name before, the other night as Drift jolted out of some bad dream. He'd made nothing of it then, figuring it was merely a part being named, merely some random syllable. "You're from the neutrals," he said, trying to build some bridge between them. "Where he got his armor."

Wing nodded. "I mean no harm," he repeated, softly. He gave a bitter laugh, pushing his hand through Perceptor's. "I can't do you any harm."

"How did you…?" He cut himself short, unable to push the question.

"The sword. I'm bound to it, and he touched it after I was killed and," a ghost of a shrug. "It's never happened before." He seemed apologetic.

Perceptor tilted back. "You can't leave."

Wing shook his head.

"And you're with the sword."

A nod, a worried look, bitten lip-plate, as Perceptor put the pieces together. Every time he'd been with Drift—Wing had been there, watching. What had he felt? Thought? How would Perceptor feel, forced to watch a mech he cared about interface with another? His hand stroked comfortingly, blindly, down the blade.

"He can't see you."

A shake of the head. "I tried." So much in those two simple words: Perceptor could almost see the white shape leaning over Drift, touching him, desperately, calling out to him, to no avail.

Perceptor couldn't think of a worse fate. "But how can I?"

Another shrug. "I don't know." A rueful grin. "My first time being dead. I don't know the rules."

It was a feeble joke, but an attempt to brighten the mood between them. Perceptor nodded, agreeing with the intent. "Are you pleased, at least, with Drift? With what he's done?" He hoped it was enough of a change.

Wing glowed. "Of course. I just wanted him to be…happy." A glimmer of a lie: Wing wanted Drift to be happy, yes, but with him. "No harm will come to Drift," Wing blurted, fiercely, to bridge his own prevarication, and for a moment he rippled, solid, hand clenching into a solid fist. "I make sure of it."

Perceptor cocked his head, questioning.

Wing drew back as if regretting his hasty words, as if he were betraying a confidence. "I…in combat." He pushed his hand into Perceptor's, for a klik, and Perceptor felt his hand clench—at the jet's command. "It's why he has no memories of it," Wing admitted.

And, Perceptor thought, why his usual explosive style sometimes seemed to shift into something silky, liquid and smooth. How many times had he watched that happen and not known, never even guessed?

And Drift…didn't know.

Wing's face bore the tremulous expression of a supplicant, as though taking Drift over, helping him fight, was some guilty crime.

"You love him," Perceptor guessed. Not…much of a guess: he could read it in every misty line of the jet's armor, the way the insubstantial wings fluttered at his words.

Wing nodded. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry." Perceptor blinked. Perhaps logic was different among the dead.

"He's…not mine. I have no right." Wing seemed to shrink back.

Oh. "You have every right, Wing." No one can tell another mech whom to care about. And that included Perceptor. And Drift.

"I don't want to intrude," Wing continued, blinking fast, as though strobing away emotion. "I just…get lonely."

Lonely. Perceptor knew more than a little about that. "You can talk to me." He gave a wry shrug. He was no replacement for Drift, but…he was something.

A shy smile bloomed on the translucent face. "I'd like that," Wing said.

And Perceptor realized…he'd like it, too.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N Someone asked how Perceptor can see Wing. Two answers: One, it was part of the kink meme request this was based off, and two, Perceptor nearly died in canon, before he rebuilt himself, so it's, I suppose, part of that 'been to the threshold himself' thing.

Wing had told him to verify, and even if the jet hadn't, Perceptor was too much of a scientist, still, to take one source of information. He waited, catching Drift alone, as the smaller mech scrolled fitfully through a datapad. "Who is Wing?"

The datapad nearly fell from Drift's hands—the white mech lunged to catch it. "Wing?" His optics seemed to coruscate, telling Perceptor everything he needed to know. He could read the fleeting impulse to lie, prevaricate, evade, and saw Drift shove those aside. Perceptor took heart from that: Drift did not lie to him. "He's from…Crystal City. Where I was." A strange shift of Drift's expression. "He's dead."

Perceptor caught movement from the corner of his right optic—a white blur resolving itself into Wing, face stricken, hands wringing at their helplessness.

Drift's optics narrowed. "Where did you hear that name?"

"You," Perceptor said, quietly. "Two nights ago. Your bad memory purge. You called it out."

Drift frowned, at himself, as though he had betrayed something.

"I was with him," Wing murmured. "In his dreams, that night. I…didn't know he thought they were nightmares." He reached out a helpless, misty hand, stroking down Drift's shoulder, as if trying to caress away the pain he might have caused. "I'll stop."

"No," Perceptor answered, realizing too late that Drift was here, and could hear him, and had no idea what he was talking about. He turned to Drift. "Do you want them to stop? Those dreams?"

"No." The answer, fast, sure and hard, the white-armored hands clenching into fists, as though he'd fight to keep those dreams if he needed to. "In them," he added, awkwardly, "everything's just…so much less complicated." His gaze dropped to his hands.

Wing gave a pleased chirr, mechanisms he no longer owned revving with a shy pleasure. Perceptor caught his gaze, nodding. "Thank you," Wing whispered.

Perceptor shrugged. How could he be jealous of a ghost who lived in dreams? How could he deny him that small comfort when he had Drift, awake, alive? Wing had had Drift first, had made him who he was. Perceptor had no right to complain, no right to draw boundaries, to exclude the phantom jet. Wing swept forward, and Perceptor felt a warm rush of energy, as the white arms flung themselves around him in a quick, ephemeral embrace. He shivered at the contact, electricity shimmering through his systems. "I'll leave you alone now," Wing murmured.

"But—"

"Just for tonight," Wing added, resolving behind Perceptor, his hands pushing gently at the red shoulders, nudging him toward Drift. "Please?" It was a needless courtesy, but all Wing could offer.

"'But' what?" Drift said, cocking his head. "Everything all right?"

The hands pushed at him again, and through them Perceptor could feel Wing's honest, pure intention—that Drift be happy, that Perceptor be happy. It was…dizzying, unreal, that a mech could so purely desire the happiness of others. He was humbled before it. And in front of him, Drift was quirking that half-smile, his optics curious, his mouth almost calling to Perceptor. He leaned forward, mouth seeking Drift's, arms wrapping around the white frame with a solidity and force he knew Wing must envy. "Yes," he murmured. "Everything's fine."

[***]

Perceptor caught the white flash of Wing's body as Drift pulled him down on top of him. The jet had left, quietly, politely, every time. And every time managed to look more and more heartbroken. He lifted his head. "Stay," he said, softly.

Wing stopped, uncertain, turning by the doorway.

"Planning on it," Drift murmured, growling into Perceptor's upraised throat. "Planning on making you stay, too."

Wing hesitated, drawn to Drift's voice, his movements, the white and black hands tugging around Perceptor's chassis.

Perceptor tilted his head in invitation. He didn't want Wing to feel he had to leave: he doubted there was much the jet hadn't already seen, huddled in the sword's gem. Wing reached a pale hand, brushing it over Drift's shoulder. "He's so beautiful," Wing said.

Perceptor nodded.

"You make him so happy," Wing said, his voice distant and sad, that he could see Drift happy...but have no part in it.

Perceptor found himself savoring the words—Wing saw; Wing knew. And he tried—he tried to make Drift happy, make all that he'd been through pass and fade. He hung in a haze of the words, until Drift raked his hands down Perceptor's back.

"Boring you?" Drift teased. "Can make it more interesting."

Wing's engines revved at the tease, his optics molten with want. "His helm," he said, his hand drifting to brush the long finials. "Have you ever?"

Perceptor shook his head, before bending down, letting his mouth trace along the upper sweep of the white shape, his glossa probing gently at the tip. Drift shuddered, beneath him, clamping his thighs around Perceptor's leg, grinding his pelvic frame into Perceptor's body. Perceptor caught a wink from Wing's optic, the jet settling down by Drift's head, his hands stroking gently at the other finial. Drift groaned, squirming under Perceptor's weight.

"Think he can feel me?" Wing asked, face alight with hope.

Perceptor nipped at the finial, before looking up. Drift had shivered at the touch. Aroused, his EM field was sensitized, registering even the ghostly fuzz like some feathery, phantom touch. "Yes."

The jet's optics shuttered in a tremulous sort of happiness, that he could somehow still reach Drift, alive, even that much, not buried in the cocoon of dreams.

"Yes?" Drift echoed, his voice rough with need. "There better be more to this."

Perceptor and Wing exchanged a rare, precious smile.

[***]

"Got a problem."

Of course. Springer only came to Kup when there were 'problems'. Which meant, in translation, 'slag Springer didn't want to deal with.' Which tended to have a lot of overlap with 'Things Springer can't solve by punching something.' "What is it?"

"Perceptor."

Well, there's a name Kup hadn't expected to come up in the 'problem' category. "Perceptor. Okay, what's he been doing."

Springer shrugged, uncomfortable. "Talking to himself, a lot. In his workshop, mostly. He's talkin' like havin' a regular conversation, only…no one's there."

Kup looked at Springer from under the rim of his helm. "It's Perceptor." Seriously. Perceptor, talking too much? That was like saying Sunstreaker was 'too vain'. Fell under the category of 'no slagging kidding'.

Springer gave an angry sort of huff. "Okay, fine. Then how's this?" He slotted a datatab into the console, cueing it up. A scene: regular ship surveillance, the rec room. Kup read the time-hash—early morning, when only the virtuous were up, which meant the Wreckers were dead asleep, or drunk, or both.

"Xenobiology," Perceptor muttered, stepping into the shot. "this time, I think. History later." He walked to the holovid display, the case underneath, bending to rummage through the collection of vids. He looked up, and the camera caught a flash of his reticle. It looked, for all the world, Kup thought, like someone had said something to him. "Music later. All right." Perceptor dug out a few vids, slotting them into the reader, in queue. He straightened. "If you need anything…."

And he turned, and left. Just like that, just as the first vid, a documentary about Quaal, began. Springer leaned over, snapping the display off with one jabbing finger. "See?" he said.

Yeah, Kup saw. He sighed. "So he talks to himself. So he plays holovids to an empty room. Maybe he's got himself an imaginary friend." He tried a blustering shrug. Perceptor was too good a mech to deserve Springer's judgment. "Look, Springer. We all got issues." He lifted a cy-gar from the table beside him. "We all got our ways to cope."

"Cope." Springer's gaze flattened.

"Well, what do you think it is?"He had a feeling he knew the answer.

"Drift," Springer said, spitting the word.

Yup. "So he's with Drift, and gets an imaginary friend. Interesting relationship side-effect. Don't remember hearing that one before."

"You're not taking this seriously," Springer snapped.

"I'm takin' it plenty seriously, Springer. Just that, till you prove to me this is actually a combat liability, it ain't a problem."

"By the time he's a liability," Springer retorted, "it'll be too damn late."

"Fine." Point, though Kup hated to admit it. And they needed Perceptor. He was calm, quiet, reasoned. He brought something to the team. "I'll handle it."

Springer frowned, but…after all, that's what he'd wanted Kup to say anyway. "See that you do."


	4. Chapter 4

Perceptor would hate to admit how much he found he enjoyed the jet's company. Wing was endlessly curious, the fear and shyness giving way to a coy teasing. Wing would sit, patiently, watching Perceptor work, asking questions. At first Perceptor had thought that, well, Wing was starved for any contact, but the mech really did seem interested, remembering details of Perceptor's life, as he told them, asking about Kimia, knowing, instinctively, not to ask about other things. He'd asked—once—how Perceptor had met Drift, and immediately swerved the topic away at Perceptor's distant, pained expression.

And touching. Wing couldn't touch in a real sense, but Perceptor got used to, and then came to enjoy, the gentle, fuzzy prickles of the jet's ghostly arms around him. Sometimes, if he was bent over some difficult piece on his bench, he'd feel the soft fuzz around him, and Wing would just stand there, wordlessly, curled against his backstruts, giving silent comfort, mute support.

And Wing told him stories—things he'd found on his wanderings through the Axion, such as Springer needing music playing to fall into recharge, or Twin Twist's collection of 'special' holovids. And he told him about Drift, those long months together. Perceptor was fascinated, seeing Drift through Wing's optics.

Today, Wing perched on the table's surface, the sleek lines of his thighs, the stabilizers on his shins, beautiful distractions. As always, politely sitting to Perceptor's right, where his optic could most easily see him. Another unspoken thing that Wing did with a natural grace. "Well," he laughed, modestly, "After all, he'd seen a sword for less than a decacycle."

Perceptor nodded, reaching for a new capacitor from the small cabinet. "I had wondered. Deadlock was not known for bladed weapons."

Wing nodded. "He did always have tenacity," he added. "When he wants something, nothing stops him." He grinned. "I suspect you know that."

Perceptor felt a faint grin. It felt good to talk like this, sharing stories, with someone. It felt…nice, even though his own stories were telegraphic and flat by comparison to the long, descriptive tales Wing spun. "He can be…headstrong."

"Who?" A voice from the doorway. Perceptor twitched: Wing's head snapped up, optics wide in alarm. "Who can be headstrong?"

"Kup," Perceptor nodded, evenly, turning around to face the green mech.

"Weren't talkin' about me, Perceptor." That half-frown that told Perceptor Kup wasn't in the mood for games.

"Drift," Perceptor said. "Merely thinking aloud."

Kup gave him a keen look. Beside him, Wing frowned, guarded, hands clutching for weapons. A movement of old instinct, Perceptor thought—Wing had said he couldn't do any harm. Still, the defensive gesture, the way Wing stepped between them as if guarding Perceptor, touched him. "Seem to be doing that a lot lately."

"Have I?" Perceptor deadpanned.

Kup cocked one supraorbital ridge. "Yeah. You have." He sighed. "Look. Not trying to accuse you of anything. Just…it's been noticed."

"That I talk." He tried to sound disbelieving. It was fraught with irony. Before….before Drift, most mechs would agree that Perceptor talked too damn much.

"Springer," Kup shot back.

Perceptor's shoulders sagged. Springer did have the authority—and he was not one to wield it with half-measures—to pull him from the Wreckers. To separate him from Drift. "What does he want." Surrender, complete and utter. He cast a quick, apologetic look at Wing, He could not risk it. In a strange way, he felt a flare of envy: Wing could not be separated from Drift. Not the way he could.

Wing nodded, pale optics glowing with understanding, even as he edged behind Kup.

Kup nodded, as if relieved this wouldn't be harder. "Just to run a psych diagnostic. I know, I know. Fraggin' joke for the Wreckers—we're all crazy as slag on a smelterplate." He gave a shrug. "Just play along."

Perceptor paused, considering. He had nothing to fear. It was more the insult of being asked to take it. "Tomorrow."

"Good enough," Kup said. "I'll tell Springer to lay off your case." He turned to leave, turning right into where Wing had moved, glaring, behind him, arms folded, hostile and helpless. He gave a strange, shudder, shooting one look over his shoulder back at Perceptor, as he passed through Wing, the white form rippling like an image on water, as if Kup could sense the hostility. "And clean up in here. Kinda…creepy."

[***]

"He will accept it," Perceptor murmured, careful to keep his voice low, chin tipped downward, not looking at Wing, in case someone was watching.

"But…they think you're crazy. Because of me."

"They do. It doesn't matter." Wing needed him more. He could pass the psych diagnostic. It was just…humiliating. And he could, and would, do more for Drift. And, he realized, for Wing, who had given him Drift to begin with.

Wing fretted, his wing panels riffling. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He moved down the corridor, Wing keeping pace.

"What can I do?" Perceptor could feel the emotion sheeting off Wing: guilt, dismay, frustration. Had he been this emotive in life? Perhaps all jets simply broadcast their emotions like auras. "Surely there's something."

Perceptor hated to say no, those earnest optics glowing gold on him. So few mechs asked to help—most demanded he help them. "You know Drift." He ducked his head, hiding the movement of his mouth. "I could use some advice breaking the news to him."

[***]

"You're in early," Drift said, sitting up, startled, his arms unwrapping from around the Great Sword. Wing rushed forward, at the sight, hands outstretched, giving a poignant chirr. Perceptor stopped in the doorway, feeling, stupidly, betrayed. Did Drift seek comfort from the sword when Perceptor wasn't there? Did he look…guilty?

"Yes," Perceptor managed, still numb, in the doorway. The plan he and Wing had concocted fell away from him; the careful words, gentle approach. "I have a psych stability diagnostic in the morning," he blurted.

"What?" The hands found the hilt of the Great Sword faultlessly, optics flaring with rage and concern.

Wing whirled, openmouthed. "This isn't what we-!"

Perceptor froze, lost, wishing he could take the words back, do it again. He'd blurted to try to claim Drift's attention, where he thought he'd been losing it to Wing. No, not to Wing—to the Sword. Wing had been with him the whole time. He was jealous of a ghost of a ghost. Now he had Drift's attention, and all he could do was squirm. "I'll take care of it," he said, his voice barely reaching beyond himself.

"Springer," Drift snarled, pushing to his feet, the Sword's gem blazing. Wing gave a cry that seemed merely an echo of a sound, almost a tone matching the flaring of the glyphs along the blade. Drift strode to the door.

Perceptor moved to block him. "Drift," he said, thrusting an arm between the mech and the door. "No."

"Stand aside," Drift said, staring at the door, refusing to meet Perceptor's gaze, his body rigid with fury.

Wing moved beside Drift, optics importunate. "Drift," he said, his form fuzzing and bluing, pulsing with the sword. "Please. There's no need. It's my fault."

"Not a big deal," Perceptor murmured, trying the same tactic that had worked with Wing.

Drift said nothing, merely growling, feral. "Move."

"Drift," Perceptor's voice lacked the rich, honeyed timbre of Wing's, but at least Drift could hear it. For all the good it did.

Drift's head twitched, marginally, the finials shifting, a sharp glare from the corner of his optics. "This needs to be settled," he said, voice dangerous, dark.

Behind Drift, Perceptor saw Wing twitch, quiver…and disappear.

And Drift's posture straightened, the blade's gem guttering down, like a fire banking itself. He turned away from the door, moving smoothly, sword finding its sheath as he met Perceptor's gaze. And Perceptor could see the golden sheen on the blue optics, the tentative, apologetic smile, so alien to Drift's face. And when he spoke, it was Wing's gentle voice. "I'm sorry."


	5. Chapter 5

Warning: sticky

"Not funny." Drift tugged at his bound wrists.

"I know." Perceptor perched on the berth, leaning forward, finishing up the stabilizing knot as Wing rematerialized beside him. "It was necessary."

"Necessary." Drift's voice was quiet, but sharp—a stiletto. He waited, ventilations quick, on the edge of irritation. Perceptor said nothing, finishing the knot. The blue optics narrowed. "How'd you overpower me?" Halfway between a demand and puzzlement.

Ah. That. Perceptor cycled a vent. "Drift, there's…something I have to tell you."

Drift stilled, waiting.

And waiting.

"Perceptor," Wing importuned. "No. You can't." He came around to Perceptor's other side, trying to get between them. "If he knows I'm…," Wing shrugged, optics wide with despair.

"Kind of a captive audience," Drift muttered. "Take your time." He rotated his wrists in the bonds, frowning as they held. "And how'd you learn to tie knots like this?"

Perceptor winced as though in actual pain. "Drift. It's…," he shuttered his optics. "Wing."

Wing gave a cry of despair.

"Wing?" Drift's mouth flattened. "Not funny," he repeated.

"No, it's not," Perceptor agreed. "He's here."

"He's dead."

Wing's optics shuttered at the words, the hard pain, like a cyst, in Drift's voice.

"He's here," Perceptor insisted. "He's white, with gold optics, red flashing." He hoped that would be enough—Wing stood, open-mouthed, agonized.

"No," Drift said, shaking his head. "No. NO. You're…making it up. Or lying or…maybe you do need that psych diagnostic. He can't be." He seemed almost frantic, but less at Perceptor than the idea itself.

Wing's optics closed, giving a soft helpless mewl of pain at the rejection, his form shimmering, vague. "Drift," he said, the word a caress, trying to soothe away Drift's pain and confusion. "I know. I should have died."

"Wing," Perceptor said, "no."

"Wing?" Drift echoed, his voice edged. "He's not here. He's dead!" He twisted in his bonds. "You need to let me go, Perceptor."

"He's here, Drift." Perceptor shifted, uneasily. This wasn't working out.

"Let him go, Perceptor," Wing said, drooping, defeated. "We don't keep prisoners."

"He's not here. He's dead." Drift raised one knee, between them. As if fending Perceptor off, as if he were suddenly dangerous, a barrier between them. It…hurt. "It makes no sense. Why would you be able to see him? Not me?" A plaintive note in his voice. It was unfair; Perceptor would not deny it.

"Let me try," Wing said, suddenly. "Let me explain. If he…sees it for himself, maybe…?" It was a desperate offer. "At least he wouldn't think ill of you."

Perceptor nodded.

"It doesn't hurt," Wing murmured, moving closer, hovering just in front of Perceptor. "I promise."

"It's all right," Perceptor replied, softly, reaching a hand out toward Wing, forgetting—or trying to—that Drift was watching.

"I won't let you down," Wing whispered, voice like a breeze as he stepped into Perceptor's space. And the 'I know,' Perceptor would have answered with got lost, suspended, as Wing took him over.

[***]

Drift twisted his wrists in his bonds, his cortex queuing up an alarm code. Not sending it, yet—it would be the worst betrayal to summon some security down on Perceptor—especially with whatever Springer had already started. He couldn't do that—didn't want to. Unless there was no other choice. Unless Perceptor attempted to hurt him.

Which he hadn't, merely spilling this…crazy, disturbing talk. Wing was dead. Drift had seen his body, touched his body, felt no glimmer of spark, only the coldness of dead metal. It was some hallucination. Jealousy gone malignant.

"It's all right," Perceptor said, voice gentle and…not aimed at Drift. Rather, some spot in the air in front of him. Drift writhed with a sort of inward agony, that he had done this, was somehow complicit in Perceptor's breakdown. He'd help destroy something good and pure and beautiful. Again.

Perceptor gave a quick, sharp shudder, turning to Drift. The movements seemed…strange, more liquid, smoother than normal. And the optics glimmered, opalescent gold. "Drift," he said. But it wasn't Perceptor's voice, flat, restrained, but warm and musical, filling the solitary syllable with a world of emotion.

Wing's voice. It resonated across time, and Drift gave a sharp cry of recognition, even while his mind tried to insist this was all some…ruse or trick, that somehow Perceptor had just managed to hit on Wing's voice, well enough to mimic it.

No. It was too ridiculous, the odds beyond astronomical. And more than that, it was unfair to Perceptor, to even think him capable of such a deception. Whatever this was…it wasn't Perceptor or his doing. But was it… "Wing?"

Perceptor—or whoever he was—gave a sharp, joyous cry, throwing himself forward, arms wrapping around Drift's frame, pulling the white armor against him, crushing drift against the flat red chassis. "Oh, Drift," he murmured, and the words were like a song, bittersweet and beautiful.

Drift was without words. The movements, the voice, the spontaneity—Wing's. All of them. Even the EM field, nuzzling over his, was Wing's. And the kiss—as the mouth met his—was Wing's: not shy and awkward, like Perceptor's, who still, after all this time, felt he was intruding; but that sweet mix of insistence and gentleness, seeking and giving, glossa teasing against his, mouthplates nipping playfully. It was Wing. It had to be. Impossible, yes, but….

Drift pushed into the kiss, wanting, accepting. "Wing," he breathed, when the mouth left his.

"Oh, Drift." Too much that couldn't be said in those words, that the EM field, licking between his joints, spoke better. "I'm so sorry."

The apology was absurd to Drift. Sorry…for what? Giving Drift back himself, clearing his cortex from that red cloud of violence, cooling his fury? "No," he whispered. "No apology. Please." He twisted in the bonds, more desperate now, because he wanted to touch, to make this real to his hands, to clutch the mech in Perceptor's body to him. He owed Wing everything. "But…how?"

"The Sword," Wing's voice said. He read Drift's thought—so very like Wing—reaching up, silently, and releasing the knot.

Drift's hands found the body, the familiar squared frame of his current lover, the sweet voice, and shivering responses of his former. "The Sword," he echoed, and the rest fell into place. All those nights he'd clung to it, feeling comforted just by its weight, all the times he'd leaned against it, trusting it as a swordsmech must trust his weapon, and more—it had been Wing. Hearing, understanding. He'd thought it was the childish, desperate impulse of a desolate mech, lonely, burning for guidance. He'd never guessed, never dared imagine. "All this time."

"Yes," Wing said, simply. "All this time." Seeing, knowing everything.

Drift's arms wrapped around the frame, as if he could embrace away, somehow, the pain between them—longing, separation. "I've probably disappointed you," he whispered, voice breaking with static.

"No," Wing said, pulling away just far enough, optics coruscating blue and gold, intense. "Never." The expression of sadness, on Perceptor's lean, melancholic face, nearly broke Drift, before it crested into a smile. "You never could." He dipped down for a kiss. "You've been true to your spark and…what more could I ask?"

Drift felt a sound—sorrow, joy, longing intermingled—fill him. "I've missed you," he murmured, to release, slowly, some of that pressure.

"I know," Wing said, bending over to kiss the pain away, remove the need to speak. Words hurt too much, but their bodies—even Wing's borrowed one—spoke better, with less confusion, their EM fields twining around each other, hands, mouths, seeking and knowing—reknowing—each other. Drift writhed at the knowing touches—after all this time, Wing remembered the secret spots on his body, gaps in his armor, with just the right pressure, just the right touches—firm scrapes and gentle glides, playing Drift's desires like a melody. "May I?" Wing murmured, burying his face in Drift's throat. "It's been so long."

"Yes," Drift gasped, squirming under desire, his hands clamping over the hips. Too long, and something he'd never thought he'd have again: he was torn by the impossibilities. He closed his optics, knowing it was a kind of cheat, letting his body sink into all that was Wing—the tantalizing touches, sweet voice, coy, teasing flares of his EM field.

Hands explored his body, relearning him swiftly, driven by an urgency, a need beyond physical desire, like the blue core of fire's flame. And Drift cried out, Wing lancing a spike into him, fitting and right like a sword in a sheath, Drift's valve shuddering, clinging, around the sudden presence. Wing rocked against him, the spike's movement surging and gentle, measured and yet insistent, inexorable like a moon-pulled tide. Drift lay, overcome, hands gliding over the rocking frame above him, head tilted to expose his throat to that mouth that knew just how to kiss, how hard to bite to get him to shudder in sharp anticipation, in an elegant counterpoint to the slow, steady build of charge from the spike's silky movement in his valve.

This was more than just charge, current, between them; this was a re-joining of something long sundered, their fields knitting together, pleasure becoming ties between them, solid and tangible and real.

"Drift!" Wing's voice keened his name, cresting into overload, hands clutching at the white spaulders, and Drift's optics flew open, feeling the body arch against him. And…he saw. In that fragment of time, he saw the gold optics flaring in desire, the white audial flares, the wings, spread, flared open, current dancing over them.

And then it melted, dissipating like a mist, even as Drift tried to focus his optics on it more clearly, and it was Perceptor's body, sagging down upon him, the optics clearing and blue, shivering in the fading edge of the overload. And it was Perceptor's voice, and the shy, awkward shifting of weight off Drift of the larger mech. Drift was…lost in a sea of confusion. Wing, here, all this time. His anger, even the most diaphanous edge, was gone, evaporated in the heat of his desire. He pulled his arms around Perceptor, for the depth of what he had offered Wing, offered Drift. "Thank you," Drift murmured, into Perceptor's throat, before tilting the chin toward his with one hand, planting a soft kiss on the flat, severe mouth, all of Wing's sensual softness gone from the mouth, the voice.

"You understand?" Perceptor asked, optics dimming, the fading desire from Wing's overload surging up again, driven by his own want, the spike stirring again in Drift.

Drift gave a crooked smile. "As much, I think, as anyone can."

Perceptor accepted the answer, his mouth joining with Drift's, feeling Drift's thighs wrap around his, in open invitation, offering parity—what he shared with Wing, he would share with Perceptor.

And Perceptor accepted that, too, feeling the jet's silent presence, curled, snug and satisfied, in the glittering hilt of the sword that lay beside them on the berth.


	6. Chapter 6

Warning: sticky

Kup frowned at the results of the test that Perceptor handed him, wordlessly. Partly at himself—he'd expected to see, well, something off. Nearly dying, whatever it took to do…whatever Perceptor had done to himself, something. But no, Perceptor's stability was well within functional tolerances. Better than Kup's own, in fact, he thought, remembering too easily that time when the situation had been reversed, at Kimia, when Perceptor had been monitoring his reconstruction. Probably had the same furrowed brow ridge as Kup was sporting now, Kup thought, squinting at the datapad, sourly.

And by the look of it, Perceptor remembered, too. "You'll probably want to run the Stage Two diagnostics, anyway," he said, offering before Kup had to make up some slick lie. Yeah. He wanted as much to throw at Springer's head as he could. Maybe something'd penetrate that pointy green helm. At least dent it.

"Yeah," Kup said. "Might as well." He jerked his chin at one chair. Not inviting, but not—quite—an order.

He watched Perceptor as he sat, trying to read something in the posture. Nope. No tells there: Perceptor was taut, tense, but…he was just about always like that. Since the ship, that mission. No, before that, even. Kup could remember those shadowy looks as far back as Kimia.

Dredging up the diagnostic protocols was like reaching into a sludgy mass. Sometimes, an old mech's memory wasn't as sharp as it used to be. "Want to tell me what's going on?"

"Nothing." No sullenness, no attitude, like he might have expected from Jazz or Hot Rod. Just…flat.

"Figured as much." Perceptor, holding out on him. What he'd expect of any other mech. But, well, Perceptor had changed. Question was: how much? He scrolled the results. "You had a psych done for Kimia, right?"

Perceptor nodded. "After the Skyfall incident, it was mandated." Skyfall. The Gideon's Glue. Kup frowned at the memory. He waited, then, "You need the results of those as well." Not a question. He pulled the input rod from his storage, handing it over wordlessly, waiting, almost preternaturally still, while Kup slotted the rod, calling up the results.

Huh. Empathy'd gone up, but also aggressive emotional response. Might be kinda hard to deal with. "Why don't we start with the basics then. You overworked? We can shift your schedule." As in, give him a schedule and actually enforce it. Which would probably, Kup knew, involve welding the damn workroom's door shut.

"No."

Kup waited. Nothing came. This was going…just dandy. Time to turn a few screws. "So plenty of talkin' to the empty air; nothin' for ol' Kup."

The lip plates thinned, pressed together. "What would you like to know?"

"Who are you talkin' to?"

A shift of the optics. "Myself."

Lying. It actually kinda hurt. Perceptor, lying to Kup. "And the holovids? You put them on for yourself, too?"

A momentary blink, wobble, and then recovery. "Background noise."

"From three rooms away." Yeah? Pull another filter over my optics.

Perceptor stared him down. "You have the psych results."

"Yeah. And I know enough that they ain't the whole story." Kup sighed. "Look, Perceptor. We've been through a lot." Perceptor's good optic seemed to twitch. "Just tryin' to look out for you."

The kind of silence as a stone falls a long way down an empty well, that sensation of the air thickening, deepening around them. Perceptor leaned forward, abruptly, the reticle optic flashing white. "Like you did on Turmoil's ship," he said, his voice a sharp hiss, like a blade through paper.

The accusation was so sharp, so unexpected that even Kup was floored for a klik. The room seemed to spin, as if gravity had just gone haywire.

The black palms slapped on the table, expressing a violence Kup had never seen before in Perceptor, as the larger pushed up to his feet. "Anything else?" Perceptor asked, coldly. He waited for a handful of kliks before turning on his heel and leaving, Kup holding the datapad in numb fingers.

[***]

It wasn't violence Kup thought he saw. Perceptor knew it for what it was: fear, panic, the prickling of an animal shoved against a wall. His hands were shaking by the time the door closed behind him, and he paused, leaning against the wall, head tilted back, for a long moment.

He hadn't meant to get that upset. He hadn't thought he _was_ that upset. His logical mind told him that Drift had saved him and he was alive and that should be enough. It should be.

But it wasn't.

It had created the best gift he'd ever been given—that strange series of ties between he and Drift, that gentle, mutual obligation and want. And he would not trade that for anything, even the peace of mind he'd had earlier, before his…incident.

But it had also broken something and the parts of that still rattled around, still got caught in other gears. And one of those bits was Kup.

No. Things with Kup had been broken long before Turmoil had blown Perceptor's chassis open. Perceptor ran a hand over his chestplate, even the memory-echo of that moment enough to double him over. And that's why it hurt, on a different level: Kup's abandonment, leaving him there, writhing, agonized, not coming back for him, showed that secretly, Kup knew it, too.

He cycled a deep vent, forcing himself steady. It was over and done. Kup had the results, and Perceptor knew they were stable enough. Because he wasn't crazy. He wasn't seeing things. Wing was real.

Perceptor pushed off the wall, managing a nod at Topspin, who shot him a curious look. Yes. Time to move. Drift—and Wing—were waiting.

[***]

Drift jumped to his feet, already standing by the time the door had opened, discarded datapad clattering to the desk. He studied Perceptor for any sign, warily. "So," he said. "How'd it go?"

Wing slipped from the sword, brushing one hand down Drift's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

This. He'd never had this before—anyone caring about _him_. It was always what he could do—specifically what he could do for them—others cared about. "Fine. It's over." He knew—they knew—that didn't say half of what had happened. And also, that he didn't want to talk about it anymore.

"Was Wing with you?" Drift asked.

Wing brushed the edge of Drift's arm again, and this time, Drift's hand floated up, as if stroking the touch. Wing gave a giddy click before shaking his head. "I didn't want to be with you, in case I distracted you," Wing said. "I didn't think you'd want me there."

Perceptor nodded. It was a good thought. "No," he answered Drift. "He stayed here." A slight intonation as a question. Wing nodded.

Drift, for some reason, relaxed. "Good." Well, Perceptor thought, he'd seen the danger—more than once he'd caught Perceptor answering Wing. And even after he knew, he still sometimes startled at it. A quiet smile, and a nod. "And now?"

Now? Perceptor shrugged. He'd blocked out more time for the interview. He hadn't thought of it. "I have…those target locks to recalibrate for Topspin," he said, slowly. He wasn't ready to get back to it. Not just yet. Then again, maybe the work—mindless, tedious as it was—would settle him.

"Must you?" Wing asked. "Already?" The words overlapped with Drift's softer, "Look tired, Perceptor."

He was tired, and no, he didn't really have to do those fixes. Not just yet. "Yes, well," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, letting his optics float shut. "No point putting it off, I guess."

"None at all?" Wing's voice, but it was strange, deeper, warmer than Perceptor remembered. It sounded like that…once.

Perceptor's optics snapped open, and only Drift stood before him. But it wasn't Drift—he stood like Wing, the subtle difference in the carriage of the chassis, and it was Wing's smile, crinkling the gold-sheened optics.

"Have you…does Drift…?"

"It was his suggestion. He guessed I was here." The smile turned fond. "And hoped that if he was talking to an empty room no one would think he was crazy." He shrugged. "I tried to tell him it was a bad joke, but…he couldn't hear me."

It was a bad joke, but exactly the kind Drift would try. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him down, mouth meeting his still opened in surprise. The kiss was…not Drift's, gentle and seeking, inviting, teasing, where Drift's were demanding and taking.

"Let me?" Wing's voice was husky and rich in the air between them, hands stroking over Perceptor's shoulders, the touch just slightly clumsy, curious, touching an unfamiliar frame for the first time.

"If you want," Perceptor murmured.

"If." Wing laughed, the sound like music, as though the word were slightly ridiculous. "Yes," he breathed, hands tweaking over the sharp rises on Perceptor's shoulder armor, fingertips searching under the seams, "I want."

Perceptor let himself be pulled down, over, toward the berth, Wing gliding gracefully backwards, mouth and hands goading, inviting him to follow. The touches, light, teasing, new, sent sparkles of sensation over his sensornet, little brightly colored stars of feeling, swirling and floating like glittering dust. Wing, getting to know him after all this time, touching him for real, no longer ghostly brushes, but hard edge on hard edge, texture and heat, for the first time, with a sense of reverence, of cherishing every new memory of touch he was making.

Wing pulled Perceptor down on top of him, catching the black hips between his silver thighs, arms wrapping around the red frame, one ankle twining behind a thigh. "The question is," Wing said, his fingers skittering over Perceptor's back, teasing along the coolant hoses, rubbing one of his helm's—Drift's helm's—finials along Perceptor's mouth, "what do you want?"

The words, the offer, as much as the tantalizing touches on his back, his chassis, the sleek slide of thighs over his hips, made Perceptor shudder. Drift's body, used in ways Drift never had, never did: exquisite torment.

"I want to thank you," Wing whispered, his EM field flickering out, soft and warm like sunlight, unlike the welcome hard buzz of Drift's. It astonished Perceptor that so much changed with Wing's control. And even more that his body responded and it felt nothing like betrayal. Part of him thought he should resist this—it wasn't Drift—but it was Drift's body, and Drift's former lover inside it, with Drift's permission. He didn't want to resist, didn't want to do anything other than let this unfold, let it take him over.

He found himself kissing the finial, nipping at its sharp angle, tracing up to the sharp tip, feeling Wing shiver beneath him, curling his pelvic frame against Perceptor's, hot and wanting. "Want you," Perceptor murmured, the words less spoken than vibrated between them, his whole body echoing the words, arms enveloping the white frame.

Wing squirmed beneath him, slipping his interface hatch open. "Yours," he moaned, gold-blue optics swirling wells of desire beneath Perceptor.

Perceptor sank into the white body, spike sliding home in the valve. He shuddered, Wing keening around him, calipers rippling down against his turgid spike. And he found a tempo—fast, insistent, Wing crying out and clawing against him, wanton and open the way Drift never was, mouth parted in a blissful shape. His own voice joined in, a rhythmic soft baritone, punctuating his thrusts. His own hands were knowing and familiar on Drift's body, Wing's container; Wing's hands light and learning. Both rose together, arching, metal hard on metal as the overload broke over them both, a white bright wave of sound and ecstasy.

He collapsed against the white frame, both of them shuddering, current dancing across their joined bodies, and Perceptor could sense three of them—he and Wing and Drift—spun together in some intricate, delicate and yet solid web.

The moment faded, the sensation faded, and he was slumped over the white frame, black helm against the white finial. He pushed back, slowly, palms by the shoulders. "Probably crushing you," he croaked, even as his hips gave one last aftershock.

"No," Wing said, hands clinging against the red frame. "I like the weight. It makes me feel…real." His optics rippled, on the verge of emotion. Perceptor bent to kiss away the sorrow, knowing that in some cases, words were empty, useless to console. And when he lifted his head, it was Drift's optics he looked into, wide and blue, and Drift's smile that quirked against his mouth, the blue gem of the Great Sword glowing behind Drift's head like a brilliant, joyous sun.

END

Note:

The 'Skyfall incident' refers to a subplot of "Boots"-Skyfall more or less hands the formula for Gideon's Glue (one of Ironfist's inventions) over to the 'cons. They use it once, and decide that it's...too horrific even for them. Ironfist waits until his death to reveal news of Skyfall's betrayal.


End file.
